I had a job once, a job that I wasn’t qualified for, which required me to have long conversations with business owners describing their businesses so that I could write about them. The nature of this blog should be an indicator that I was not successful at this career. Partially because I spent a great deal of time browsing websites dedicated to things that NO ONE should Google (like spending an entire conversation researching Alan Thicke’s career) while talking to these people, and also because sometimes people had CRAZY businesses which would be best kept locked in their imaginations.

However, despite the insanity of a large handful of small business owners, this job generated some magical interactions with people that had hypothetical careers and businesses based on, what I believe to be, significant dissociative disorders. Cognitively I am in no position to judge.

Except I am going to judge. Like right now. Because this shit was wild.

[I don’t have photos pertaining to this consultation until the last paragraph, so instead of photos that relate to the post I’m just going to use my favorite photos of Phil Collins – none of which I own the copyright to]

The woman I was talking to, for over an hour, claimed to be a nurse. (Halfway through the conversation she switched up nurse and clarified that she was actually, “a healer”). But she only practiced one field of medicine, which was edifying people on the nature of dream babies. What’s a dream baby? One might ask (like me). And they would be sorry they did, because she told me what the fuck a dream baby is.

A dream baby, according to this healer, is a predictive baby that you dream about – but is also real. Even if it’s a dream. What? You might be asking. That doesn’t seem like it could be AT ALL A THING. And I would agree with you. While describing herself now as a gypsy, she went on to say that pregnancy dreams are an ultrasound from God. Even if you’re a man or a very old person incapable of having a baby, if you dream about one you have a fucking baby. It’s with you – no escape. The spirit of dream baby lives in you – AND FUCKING TALKS TO YOU. And that the dream baby….is a real living (?) baby that exists maybe within you, but I don’t entirely know. It was confusing as hell. Here are some of the notes I jotted down while on the consultation.

Dream baby.

And then we got into the good stuff. The better stuff. Which was a long drawn out conversation about how during conception sometimes it will be off by two weeks. It’s a mystical magical phenomenon called the “missing two weeks” from the date you actually convinced (either in your mind during a dream or conceived during fucking – it wasn’t clarified). The two weeks could be early or two weeks late. She said, – ya know – , for example that, say, if you were a deployed solider and come home to find out that your partner got pregnant while you were deployed it was probably due to the mystery sperm that lay dormant for two weeks and then decided to travel to the egg. Aw, yes. That old chestnut. Dormant sperms.

But don’t worry! She also sent me pictures to use. And suggested that I always listen to a “spirit baby,” should I dream of one. However, if this is what a fucking spirit baby looks like, I will actively pursue an exorcism instead:

Edited to protect the identity of the healer. The person looking at this. And most importantly: me.

I mean…that’s a monster, right? If you’re dreaming of that I would wake up to light sage and ask God to re-think his dream ultrasound or whatever the fuck. Because if that spirit baby was talking to me, and looked like that, I could only imagine that it would be speaking in tongues about the virtues of Satanism.

According to five minutes of internet research (actually it was twenty because I got distracted when I found that there was such a thing as an Archie Comics Twitter – what?!?!) I am a victim of Facebook ad targeting. And not in a nice way.

The d-bags at Facebook, who so recently told me I have no friends, have found a new way to demoralize me with their targeted attacks. Like, say, when you’re trying to mass-eat pretzels and chug down dollar wine with your best friends while catching up on Empire only to see that THIS is what Facebook thinks is most relevant to you based on advertisers (quote straight from the Facebook gods’ mouths):

Get[ting] the most value from your ad spend by reaching only the people that matter to you

Honestly…should I just end it? THANKS, THE INTERNET!

According to ad-space buyers and Facebook’s internet algorithms, the best ad choices for me only have to do with Walmart, cats, and litter.

The holiday season is when we allow an elderly man that lives as a recluse to break into our homes. I dare anyone to look at these two iterations of Santa and wonder who wouldn’t feel totally terrified of this man? So much red. Redrum.

the holiday horror show that are these depictions of Santa at the medical supply store near my old apartment. Make sure you’re healthy before Santa attacks you and forever haunts your nightmares.

It doesn’t help that every year that my friends and I get photographed with Santa he somehow finds a way to inappropriately touch me (see). Leading to this joyful Christmas joke:

Hilarious.

Which is why it makes total sense that my beloved, and miserable, cat George decided that Christmas was the perfect time to die. He had no time for candy canes, or laughing babies, or the inappropriate sexual advances of Santa. “Fuck it,” he thought. “I’m just going to die instead.”

I feel ya, George

Though there are always bright spots, like this Vonnegut fan at the local Wawa giving all customers this Christmas miracle.

Is that the star that the Wise Men followed?

And of course there is also when your friend knows you so well that she makes you into a Christmas .gif depicting you as a cheerful Christmas elf that you so truly are. Or at least you drinking.

Drinking till the New Year.

Glad that you’ve all survived the holiday season. I’ll see you in the New Year where we can start our plan to kill Santa.